


Last Day for Visits

by Persephone



Category: RocknRolla (2008)
Genre: Friendship/Love, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-11
Updated: 2011-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-27 05:36:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persephone/pseuds/Persephone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two days before One Two's due home from prison, Handsome Bob pays One Two’s mum a visit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Day for Visits

**Author's Note:**

> Set a few years before the events in the movie.

One Two’s mum is still sitting in the parlour, her best efforts on to compose herself.

She’d generally stopped doing things like that for well over a year now, when she realized I wasn’t coming for appearance sake. But with The Day now only two days away, it was getting more difficult for her to keep her composure.

I could understand that. Her son was doing a two stretch, nothing to laugh at, and she’d kept her cool long enough.

I myself was holding up surprisingly fine. Though a near-daily visitor, I didn’t come because I thought she needed a shoulder to cry on, someone to put the kettle on for. Nearly anyone could fill that need for her. I was here for something different. And she was perfectly aware of it. 

Well, maybe not perfectly aware, but she was a mum and mums tended to understand these things well before anyone else.

Photos line the bedroom walls. Hundreds, it seems. All very familiar to me now. Photos of One Two as a young man on a fishing boat, hoisting nets full of catch. Very manly. Taken probably when I was still a snot-nosed troublemaker in first form. One Two likes memories.

In all this time, one thing I haven’t allowed myself, mainly because the act would be untoward, downright naughty, inviting the passionate wrath of flint-eyed Scottish bastards on myself, is the simple act of sitting on his bed. Never mind lying on it.

Quietly, I sigh. I make jokes because I feel pain. Perhaps more than his mum does, perhaps less. Who knows.

All I do know is that were it not for coming here, being around someone whose love for him hurt much like mine did, I’d get into all sorts of trouble. Lots more than usual. I’d tear at people and things, take out the deep stuff on anyone unfortunate enough to be around at the wrong time. I would really, really make them hurt.

Instead I come here. Mumbles knows what's going on — he hardly ever doesn’t. And I appreciate him not making a fuss, not trying to tell me how carrying on like this isn’t good for me. But then, getting into other people’s business never was Mumbles’ style.

I drop my hand from the picture frame. It’s a photo of One Two in swim trunks, arms wrapped around a petite wild-haired brunette. It’s time I return to his mum’s parlour.

She let me roam his old room as though knowing I had to, since the first day I visited her. She really does know. As much as we both pretended otherwise when we’re sitting out there talking, sipping tea. 

She likes to hear my “gentry” English accent, talk posh with me, call me Robert.

Today she doesn’t need anything done in the garden. I’d go out there and do it anyway, given half the chance. When her son returns there’ll be no context for me to be ‘round doing these things for her. I’ll be back to waving smiles at her from the passenger seat of his car.

“Dearie,” she suddenly calls out from the hallway.

“Yes, love?”

“I’m off to the market. Do you need anything?”

“Nothing, thanks. Thank you for asking.”

“Oh, you’re welcome. Be back in a few.”

I smile to myself. One Two is due out in a couple of days. No more tears for either of us. But also, at least for me, no more sojourns into his personal space. Knowing this, she leaves on an errand I am in fact here to perform. 

What a darling.

“All right, love,” I whisper to her absence.

I move over to his bed. With two days left now, I get bold. Ear half-cocked, I listen for the sound of the front door closing. I hear it and swing my legs up on the bed, lie flat on my back.

I catch a breath and release it.

I’d love to pull out my cock, masturbate until I fall to pieces on his sheets. Pull and twist on his white linen until I get them all over my body.

But I quite like my features the way they’re arranged, thanks. Walk in, lie down, and a previously-unknown Scottish sense of self-preservation would manifest and the machine-washed scent of me would permeate his senses. Taking one long, deep breath, he’d somehow know what I’d been up to and come searching to pulverize me.

I’d love for him to try. Come crashing through my front door, slamming things, demanding to know, _What the hell ha’pned a’ ma’ mutha’s?!_

Oh, would I love that. What I could do with that.

I run my fingers over his bedspread, counting backwards, with difficulty, from ten. My skin is hot with a hot flush. Still I don’t touch myself. I stay flat on my back dreaming of him, me and Mumbles. Back together again.

Two more days and everything would return to normal. Back to me exercising my powers of restraint.

It would be lovely just to see him again.

_End_


End file.
